


Malabar

by imachar



Series: Sea Stories [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Facial Hair, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 09:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10918827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: Chris meets Phil for a quick mid-mission shore leave, but the mustache he's grown isn't Phil's favorite thing. Reunion sex ensues along with some snark and discussions of alien cultural mores.





	Malabar

**Author's Note:**

> It has been almost two years since I posted anything, I was beginning to think my writing days might be over, at least for this pair. But apparently not. This is the first story in my new ST:AOS series **Sea Stories**. As with **The Weight of a Man** I'm not starting chronologically, this is just a porn interlude late on in the boys' lives. The next story will be how they met.
> 
> The mustache was inspired by BG's look at the NY ComicCon last September - apparently I'm the only person who found it sexy. 
> 
> In this universe there is no **ST: Into Darkness**
> 
> Unbeta'd, read at your own risk

**Malabar**

“…the fuck, Chris?” The face on the screen of Phil’s padd is both intimately familiar and bizarrely alien and, disconcerted, he sits up too fast and the whole lily-pad habitat rocks gently and almost dumps him out of his sun-lounger. 

Chris grins and a finger appears in the vid-screen, stroking at the thick silver-white hair that frames his upper lip and extends down, thickening, towards his jawline. “You don’t like it?”

Phil hesitates, over sub-space he can’t tell if Chris is genuinely attached to his new facial decoration, or whether he’s just grown it to get a rise out of his husband, and he’s reluctant to be too harsh. They’ve neither seen, nor barely spoken to, each other in almost nine weeks and this four-day break is already going to be entirely too brief without getting off on the wrong foot. 

“I don’t know; I’ll have to experience it in person.” Now that he’s stopped moving and is no longer at risk of tumbling onto the broad flat platform that surrounds the small floating habitat, Phil frowns and scrutinizes Chris’s face. Out of uniform, his hair thick and unruly and decidedly longer than Starfleet regulations would customarily allow, he’s grinning and there are deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a look that Phil would normally, in the absence of the mustache, consider an invitation to imminent sex. 

“How far away are you?”

The grin spreads, “Maybe five minutes; you should see the jet-pod anytime, I’m coming in from the north east.”

Phil turns his head and, sure enough, there’s a faint rooster-tail of spray to the far north-east, the disturbance getting higher and wider as the tiny dark-blue water taxi speeds towards the secluded cove that houses Phil’s water-borne temporary home. There are dozens of little sand-fringed coves up and down the edge of _1257 Tarandi’s_ Coral Coast, and a good many of them are home to these tiny two-person living pods. Floating on a broad platform, with a domed living space above the surface and a matching sleeping dome beneath, the habitats are 30 square meters of minimalist luxury and Starfleet owns a couple of them for the convenience of senior officers needing a break. 

And, damn do they both need a break. 

Currently serving as the medical team leader for the Federation’s refugee screening and resettlement program Phil has spent the last five months enduring all manner of stifling heat and wretched cold; damp, cramped quarters; shit food, and entirely too many critter-infestations, on a variety of ass-end of nowhere planets as the Federation Emergency Relief Organization tries to come to terms with the huge population dislocation caused by the incipient civil war in the Klingon Empire. 

And Chris, who can normally be found heading up the relatively low-stress Office of Extra Federation Relations on Starbase **Yorktown** , has spent the last two months conducting extremely sensitive Federation entry negotiations with the Cancia’at. Now that they are close to concluding what will be a critical agreement from Starfleet’s point of view – _Cancia Prime_ is strategically located at the edge of the Tellarian Empire and Starfleet desperately needs both access to the location and the infusion of positive publicity that a new ally will provide – the talks have been suspended for a week to let the legal teams on both sides go over all the documents, and Chris has pulled strings all the way up to the Chief of Staff’s office to get Phil diverted out to _Tarandi_ so they could snatch four days of leave together. 

Not that any of that excuses the goddamn mustache. 

Cognizant of the navigation sensors on the water-taxi Phil wraps a towel around his waist as he stands to greet the incoming craft and he’s ready when the slim fast, automatically guided, boat pulls up against the platform and Chris emerges from the tiny forward cabin. 

And the mustache takes Phil by surprise all over again. 

With a grin, Chris throws his duffle onto the platform and then steps out after it, springing lightly across the short stretch of water right before the jet pod begins to accelerate and veer back out to sea. 

“You happy to see me?” In an untucked linen shirt and a pair of ancient jeans that cling in all the right places, Chris looks tanned and fit and eminently fuckable; if it wasn’t for the damned face-fuzz.

“You, yes. That abomination on your face; not so much.” Still, Phil steps forward and reels Chris into a tight, heartfelt embrace. “Jesus, I’ve missed you.” And there’s a long moment of silent calm as thirty years of sense-memory serves to short-circuit any hesitancy in their re-acquaintance. Their entire marriage has been a never-ending series of partings and reunions; and while the separations are never pleasant, they long ago learned how to leverage the duty-enforced separations into fabulously filthy reunion sex. 

“You got here faster than I expected.” One hand gripped tight in the cloth of Chris’s shirt, Phil pushes away for a moment, valiantly trying to slow things down so they don’t end up fucking on the open-air platform; not that there’s anyone out here to see them.

“Picked up a very fast commercial shuttle out of Starbase 11, but I have no idea how I’m getting back so the water taxi will be back to get me in 82 hours.” Warm and supple and entirely too thin, Chris presses up closer and pins Phil to the wall, his grin wide and feral as he leans in and whispers “So…no time to waste.” And before Phil has a chance to protest, Chris wraps one hand around his nape and pulls him into a fierce, fast kiss; all slick heat and eager, expert tongue. 

With a side of itching prickle. 

Which is surprisingly not unpleasant. 

The kiss is over before Phil has time to really process the feel of the mustache against his mouth and without thinking he licks his lips, chasing the sensation of silky-stiff hair against the sensitive skin.

Chris is watching him, his expression wary and curious, like he’s waiting for a reaction and Phil stalls, teasing, touching the tips of two fingers to Chris’s mouth before brushing them against the thick silver-gray hair on his upper lip. 

“Okay, so it feels better than it looks.”

Chris does a masterful job disguising the extent of his relief, his smile going from guarded to predatory in a heartbeat. That familiar grin that says _I want you naked on a flat surface…now…_ and Phil disengages, drawing Chris towards the open hatch to the interior of the pod. “Down stairs, now…”

It’s a race to see who can hit the bed first and Phil, naked but for a towel, has the edge. Trusting the strength of both mattress and frame he lets himself fall back onto the soft, pale linens. He settles with a slight bounce, tucking his hands behind his head, and letting his legs fall open making space for his cock as it begins to rise from its nest of thick silver gray curls. Only seconds behind him Chris is multi-tasking, shedding his shirt as he steps off the bottom step of the spiral staircase, and then pausing to unfasten his jeans and wrestle them over his rapidly filling erection. 

Phil’s heart stutters in his chest — it’s been too damn long — and with a low exhale of anticipation he reaches back and fishes a vial of lube out from under a pillow, tossing it across the room.

Chris snatches it out of the air with a grin “I‘ll take that as an invitation.” And with his jeans now on the floor, he sets one knee on the end of the low bed and leans over, one hand supporting his weight while the other deftly opens the lube. 

“I’m all yours.” Shifting so his hands are flat against the curved, transparent bulkhead behind the bed, Phil braces himself for what is shaping up to be one of their classic fast, rough _this is how much I missed you_ fucks. 

“Damn right.” In two rapid, perfunctory strokes of a lube-slick hand, Chris is prepped and he leans in, the drop-dead intensity of his eyes belying the wide grin, and pushes deep in one single, shockingly thorough, thrust. The stretch is glorious, and Phil pushes up towards it, his body urging Chris to go deeper, to prolong the aching burn of penetration after weeks of abstinence. 

_Jesus fuck_...as mind-warpingly good as it feels to have Chris buried deep, it’s the sound of him, the broken-voiced groan of relief and need, that goes straight to Phil’s soul. The affirmation that nothing in heaven, or any earth they’ve set foot on, is like this; that after thirty years of fucking and nearly as many of monogamy, all it takes is a couple of weeks apart to render them ravenous for each other. 

Pleasure spearing through him, every nerve ending alive, Phil arches his back, pushing against the curved bulkhead, trying to get Chris to move. 

Needing the friction of fucking. 

For a long moment Chris resists, braced on his arms, biceps and triceps tensed and corded as he holds himself unmoving above Phil, his head dropping low, his breath hot against Phil’s skin as he whispers. “Wait, wait for it.” 

Patience isn’t a virtue that comes naturally to either of them, but Phil reluctantly relaxes, lets his breathing settle so he can concentrate on the moment; the thick weight of Chris’s cock deep in his ass; the rhythmic thump of blood in his own cock as it slowly swells against the hot damp press of Chris’s belly; the humid, salty taste of the air and the feel of Chris’s skin, already slick with sweat where Phil has hitched his legs up over his hips. 

"Oh yeah…” Breathing out a long slow sigh, Chris drops his head a little further and _goddammit_ Phil can’t bring himself to care about the fucking mustache anymore, as they ease into a hot filthy-wet kiss; all slick tongues and gently nipping teeth. 

Leaving one hand braced on the bulkhead, Phil curves the fingers of the other into Chris’s hair, uncharacteristically wild and curly, the strands soft and silky as they slip across his skin. This is a rare and exquisite luxury. Now that he’s firmly embedded in Starfleet’s senior chain of command, Chris usually only lets his hair get this out of control when he’s on medical leave, when sex is generally the last thing on their minds, and for just a moment Phil remembers their years on the **Yorktown** – the ship not the Starbase – when they were younger and fitter and far out of reach of Starfleet directives. 

A sense memory skates across his consciousness; of yet another narrow escape for Chris, and the desperate _almost-died_ sex that had followed; of gripping Chris tight by his non-regulation curls and pressing his head down against a pillow as Phil fucked into him hard and fast, using sex as a catharsis; their bodies a howl of defiance at the hazard of life in the black. The recollection sends a swift shock of renewed desire through his body, and his fist tightens in Chris’s hair tugging hard and sharp, a plea for more. 

A sharp intake of breath and Chris whispers, his voice soft and gravel low. “Oh fuck…no more waiting…” and Phil stops thinking and lets himself get lost in the maelstrom of sweat and sex and the slippery, sensual carnality of being fucked; hard. 

When the orgasm finally hits, Phil’s pretty sure he blacks out for a brief second or two and then there’s a vague sense of slick heat and pressure as Chris shudders into his own release before they collapse together in a damp, naked tangle; wrapped around each other, uttering soft, incoherent whispers, when they finally have the breath for it.

****

“It’s intense, there are parts of the acquis that they really don’t like, and some that are, from the Federation’s perspective, non-negotiable; so we’re working around that. And the pace is crushing. It took me a week just to get used to their diurnal cycle. The teams negotiate for their entire work day – 18 standard hours – with a couple of short food breaks and then a ten-hour sleep break, and then we start all over again.” Chris stretches, rolling his neck and shoulders and Phil makes a mental note to call in the services of a masseur sometime over the next few days. 

“This species has no weekends?” Leaning over the side of the bed, Phil fishes around for a towel and comes up with a t-shirt, using it to clean his own belly and then moving on to wipe the drying come from the concave curve of Chris’s abdomen. 

“For the teams, yeah. They get a three-day break every ten days. But the Cancia’at elite society is embedded with all this hospitality and hierarchical bullshit.” 

“Too many parties?” For all Chris’s reputation as the gregarious one in their marriage, he’s no fan of staged social gatherings and Phil can hear the frustration layered under exhaustion. 

“Way too many parties. And too many tours of historical sites, and waterfalls and scenic lakes; too many nights of drinking the godawful fermented grain beer they all live on and, as of three days ago, I’ve been to fifteen all-day banquets. Which has been a fucking nightmare, because there’s some enzyme in the food that does not sit well with my system.”

Phil strokes his fingers lightly through the wiry hair below Chris’s navel and sneaks in a surreptitious abdominal palpate. Rolling his eyes, Chris smacks Phil’s hand away. “Fucking stop it, you can check it out later.”

They have four days, Phil can afford to be patient and he returns his attention to the conversation, his fingers wandering back up Chris’s torso to stroke through the wiry damp curls on his chest. “So, the parties suck; but the negotiations are going well, I guess, since you’re here and the lawyers are looking at the treaty documents.” Phil pauses, tracing a finger over Chris’s right clavicle, up his throat and into the hair on his cheek. “So, where the fuck did this come from?” 

Chris grins up at the ceiling and strokes the mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a sign of authority. The Cancia’at have a serious thing for facial hair, they have a hard time growing it and anyone who can – primarily the elites who seem to selectively breed for it – is automatically granted a whole shit-ton of deference.”

“Great, another society with toxic masculinity issues, just what we need.”

Rolling over and pushing himself up on one elbow, Chris shakes his head. “It’s more like toxic authority issues, not toxic masculinity as such. The Cancia’at display much less sexual dimorphism than we do. The facial hair thing is not determined by sex but by caste.”

“So everyone has a beard? Why am I having visions of Tolkein and dwarf-wives?”

That generates a chuckle and Chris leans in for a brief kiss. “Idiot…no, they’re a pretty aesthetic species by our standards, but the facial hair is all about authority. All adults have it, to some degree, and the elites all have this…” he rubs his cheek “…kind of overt display. As soon as I read the FDC preliminary briefing I figured I might as well saunter up to the negotiating table balls out.” He grins “When I walked in that first day with this I had the entire Cancia’at delegation’s _full_ attention.” Another stroke, finishing with a brief brush of his fingers across his shaved chin. “It takes them years to get this kind of growth, so when they’re being assholes, I leave off shaving for a few days just to remind them how fast it grows.”

“It’s amazing what cultural conditioning will make a species do.” With a sigh, Phil reaches out and scratches his fingertips gently through the silver-gray hair on Chris’s face. “So, I guess there’s no chance of you shaving it just for the next few days?”

“You hate it that much?”

“No, I could probably get used to it…just for now.” Still stroking Phil leans close and feints at a kiss, pulling back at the last minute to issue warning, the humor in his eyes belying the stern tone of his voice. “But shaving it off better be the first damn thing you do when you’ve got that treaty signed and sealed.”

 

_fin_


End file.
